


Mirage

by thefullbeaumonty



Category: The Royal Romance (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation in Shower, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 08:16:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17019054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefullbeaumonty/pseuds/thefullbeaumonty
Summary: Shower wank with feelings.  Our dear Maxwell is conflicted.





	Mirage

**Author's Note:**

> Shower wank with feelings. Our dear Maxwell is conflicted.

Sometimes he sings in the shower, and of course, he dances.

It’s cliché, but there’s no denying that it’s the perfect place to let go for a few minutes amidst the heat and steam and solitude. The drumming of water against the tile provides its own steady beat, and it’s never difficult to match with the music perpetually spinning on his mind’s personal turntable. Sometimes it starts with humming a tune to a song he can’t get out of his head, then his shoulders roll, hips swivel, feet spin on the slippery floor as he belts out the chorus. There’s no shame in it, really, but he’s still glad his bedroom is several doors down from his brother’s and that the few staff in the manor at any given time mostly steer clear.

Sometimes he talks to himself.

He works his way through difficult conversations he knows he’ll have to face, anticipating Lydia’s or Bertrand’s or Liam’s responses, trying to store sentences in his mind that won’t come out all wrong when it’s time to say them. He usually forgets his carefully thought-out quips in the moment, but this is the least he can do to try and keep his foot out of his mouth and the “really, have you fucked up again?” look off his brother’s face. Small talk is one thing. Real talk is another.

Sometimes he just needs release.

He can’t recall a time when he stepped into the shower intending to get off, but he couldn’t possibly count the number of times it’s happened. There’s just something about the way the hot water pounds steadily against his back, his chest, his shoulders, the slippery feel of soap suds making their way over his torso and down his legs. Since the social season and the engagement tour, it’s just about the only time he’s truly alone, and she’s never far from his mind anyway, stirring a feeling he’s half ashamed of and half angry with himself for ever letting creep in to begin with, especially in moments like these.

This morning as he lathers his hair in the tiny shower stall of a shared room on the royal train, he’s taken with the image of sharing this shower, fingers sliding over slippery skin, kissing along a dewy wet jawline. His hands still for a moment in his hair as his eyes close and he takes a deep, shaky breath.

Oh, god _damn_. Thirty seconds of thinking of her, which he shouldn’t be doing anyway, and he’s hard as a rock. Couldn’t this have waited at least until he’d finished rinsing his hair?

He quickly rakes his fingers over his scalp as the water washes away the remaining shampoo. He imagines working the lather through long dark hair, then skimming his fingers down the curve of her back, following the path of the soap suds as they wash away. His cock twitches and he gasps aloud. Damn.

For the shortest of moments, the thought of the only family he has left keeps him from doing what his body is on its way to doing already, and he sees the angry dismay of his brother, thinks of his father’s disappointment, the shame carried even beyond the grave. But they’re quickly, thankfully, replaced by Lydia’s warm smile, the thought of her steadfast support and friendship, her beautiful eyes and bubbly laugh - the friend he loves far more and far differently than he should.

He looks down at his hand wrapping around his erection, watching himself as he starts an immediate and very, very familiar rhythm. His eyes slip shut again and he allows himself to imagine not his fingertips dragging along his own skin, but instead a tongue and soft lips, his hand threaded through her hair as her head bobs up and down. He grips the washcloth bar as a sub-par substitute, relying on his imagination to make up the difference.

It might be embarrassing to be heard belting songs in the shower, even more so to be discovered carrying on a very one-sided conversation while sudsing up. It’s entirely different, however, to be caught in the act of coming all over the shower tile, especially by the person most likely to walk in on him right now. He takes caution to remain at least somewhat close to silent as he quickens his pace. Biting his lip, he swallows back a groan.

He grasps the washcloth bar tightly, knuckles white against the porcelain. By now, his mind sees the slope of a water-slickened spine, and he holds her bent hips in his hands as he plunges inside her imagined heat. Thrusting hard against his own hand, he mimics the motion of his hips as he sees it in his imagination, as he thinks – _hopes!_ – it must be like in real life to be with her this way.

His mouth falls open, water spilling inside his lips from the shower spray, and his breath comes in hurried, irregular gasps as he comes, hard.

He’s still aware of his heart beating wildly in his chest when he opens his eyes and slackens his grip on the washcloth bar – and himself. He rinses his hands and any trace of what he’s done from his body and the tile, and after a deep breath, he remembers the original purpose of this shower and reaches for the soap.

A few moments later, as he rinses the suds from his body, he begins to hum the tune of a recent shared waltz, the memory of her hand in his, her skirts swirling around them, and he sways his hips to the melody. She’ll never be his, and he knows it, but he has her friendship, and he loves her more deeply than any friend he’s ever had. If he wishes he could kiss her, well, that will just have to stay a wish, because he can never, ever act on his feelings. Honestly, he’s lucky to have what he has. 

In his mind, he hears her voice, sees her blue eyes shining up at him, and he smiles. It’s more than enough. It has to be.


End file.
